Noel Hynd - Hostage in Havana
“The almighty dollar is welcome here, I see,” she mused.
“Why wouldn’t it be? It’s preferred. Americans are welcome too. Cubans like Americans. It’s just the American government they hate, even more than they hate their own. But a lot of Americans don’t like their own government either,” Paul said. “So right there Americans and Cubans have a bond. That’s something that can be built on.”
“Sure,” she said. Nervously, she gave a sidelong glance at the two cops.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “They’re not after you. They’re just goofing off.”
“Good thing,” she sighed.
“I’ve got your back,” he said. “You should know that.”
“You’ve got my back? Like on the boat?”
He shrugged easily. “You’re alive, aren’t you? You got away, didn’t you?”
“Barely!”
“Well, ‘barely’ counts,” he said. “And don’t worry about the police. They walked in about five minutes before you did, so they’re not trailing you. They came in through the back exit to the bar, which leads through the kitchen. That way they wouldn’t have to cross the lobby. They do it all the time. They know the ways in and ways out, they move around close to the walls, particularly at night. Like rats. Which is what they are.”
He watched them without looking directly at them. So did Alex. She took another sip. The barman here knew how to make these things. The Cuban rum was bold and sugary, almost chewy. As she listened to Paul, Alex kept an eye on the two cops, who had their backs to the bar now, reclining slightly, cold bottles of Bucanero, the Cuban beer, in their hands as they surveyed the patrons.
One of the cops glanced in Alex’s direction.
She hid behind her drink, not actually drinking it – one of them needed to stay sharp – but pretending to enjoy a leisurely moment with her husband.
“What if the cops had seen you paying in U.S. currency?” she asked.
Guarneri scoffed. “They probably would have asked for some for themselves,” Guarneri said. “Who wants a lousy Cuban peso? No one. The money is less than useless. There are two official currencies here: the tourist peso and the worthless local peso. You don’t think the Cubans buy consumer goods from Europe and Japan with pesos, do you? That brings us to the unofficial currency. Euros and dollars, mostly dollars. Fifty years of Cuban Marxism and the currency is worthless. What does that tell you about far-left economics?”
“Several things,” she said.
“Name one.”
“Marxism doesn’t work,” she said.
“Good. Name another.”
“The American embargo made sure that Marxism didn’t work.”
“I’ll allow that. Name a third.”
“I want to get the job done and get out of here as soon as possible,” she said. “Havana is vibrant, charming, fascinating – and it gives me the creeps. So why don’t we get down to business and get a move on?”
“What do you want to know?” he asked.
“Why was there an official reception for our boat?” Alex pressed. “That tells me that something has gone terribly wrong with at least one end of this operation.”
“You’re right, of course,” Guarneri said. “But there were all sorts of reasons the boat could have been making that run and that the Cubans wanted to intercept it. They could have thought it was smuggling black market goods into Cuba, or picking up Cubans who wanted to buy their way off the island. It’s more unusual for people to try to sneak onto the island than off it.” He paused. “Pierre, the pilot that dropped us off. He’s a smuggler. That won’t shock you, will it? It was his boat and those were three of his men. They’re Miami underworld, all of them. Bad guys, but you don’t get many good guys in that line of work. They take their chances, and they know that someday the odds will go against them.”
“Human life is human life,” she said. “I don’t like the taking of it.”
“You think I do? Well, you’re wrong if you do,” he said. “I don’t. So light a candle for them if you want, but you’d be wise to go about your business. The world is what it is. Pierre, Leo, and their cronies had a lot of enemies. The most likely explanation for what happened was that the reception committee was for Leo and his boatmen, not us.”
“But you don’t know that.”
“But we go on that assumption,” he insisted. “I know there are people here who have me in the crosshairs. Probably more than I know. I’m in enemy territory. The walls have ears and people talk.” A beat and he added. “I have relatives here. You knew that, didn’t you?”
“Of course. You mentioned an uncle and my best friends at the FBI filled in a few blanks, also.”
“That was nice of them,” Guarneri said.”What about a CIA check?” he asked. “Surely you got a briefing there too.”
“You asked me that already and the answer hasn’t changed. I talked to several CIA people,” she said. “The subject was Roland Violette more than you. If they had anything on you, they weren’t willing to share it with me,” she said.
“I’m flattered. Or insulted,” he said. “Eventually I’ll know which. Can’t ever trust them, you know,” Paul added with a smile.
“Who? Trust who?” she asked.
“CIA,” he said. “Bunch of rats if there ever were some. Goes way back. Batista. Kennedy assassination. Bay of Pigs. Five hundred plots against Fidel. Jimmy Rosseli. Sam Giancana. Lucky Luciano. I don’t think those button-down buttheads in Langley have told the truth one percent of the time when it comes to this island. They’ve told the same lies so many times they actually believe them.”
“I know,” she said. “But there are some people at the Agency I know personally. Them I trust. Most of the time, not all of the time.”
“We’re on the same page, then,” Guarneri said. And he drained his glass. “You haven’t heard from ‘the Violet,’ right?”
She snuck a glance at her phone again, just in case there was a message waiting. There wasn’t. “No,” she said.
“Then I suggest we proceed with my mission here,” he said. “If you hear from your pigeon, we’ll recalculate the time.”
“Fair enough,” Alex said.
“How much do you know about this place?” Guarneri asked. “I mean, really know?”
“What place? The hotel? Havana?”
“Cuba.”
“I’m learning fast,” she said. “And I’m getting the idea that an hour of hanging with you is worth two weeks of study back in New York.”
“That’s probably true. Look, bribery is a way of life here, just like anywhere else in Central America,” he said, rambling. “There’s no legal way to get ahead so everyone jockeys for an illegal way, or at least those who are still trying to get ahead. Most of the population here has been beaten into the ground. The clever people have left, the wealthy people have left. The only people of any import who are still here are the people who can’t beat the system. Most work for the government. You know how that operates. The people pretend to work and the government pretends to pay them. You know what would work best?” he asked. “You know what would get this place moving again? If the Castro Brothers drop dead at the same time, the embargo gets lifted, American companies pour in, and the economy gets jump-started …”
While Paul talked, Alex sipped her drink. Then she watched as the two undercover policemen ditched their beers onto the bar. They snapped to attention. They were more in her line of vision than Paul’s. A wiry little man had come into the room, white shorts, badge, and a hefty sidearm. He seemed to be a commander of some sort. The cops at the bar were afraid of him, and a team of uniformed people followed. Everyone in the area gave way.
Horribly, the realization was upon her. Her heart kicked in her chest. “Paul, put down your drink and shut up,” she said.
He stopped in midsentence. “What?” he asked.
Alex nodded toward the bar as a tense scene unfolded. The wiry little man was vehemently chewing out his undercover guys, who looked scared to death. Other drinkers moved away. The other uniformed officers lurked behind their commander who was making the guys in the plantation shirts sweat.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
He looked, took a second to focus, then looked away.
“Uh-oh. We’ve overstayed our welcome,” he said with rising urgency. “That’s a political division of the police department. That sawed-off little stump with the ‘stache is a commander. He’s ticked because his guys were goofing off. He’s only going to be on the street checking if something big is afoot. The shotguns tell us they’re ready for serious trouble.”
“It’s worse than that, Paul,” she said.
“Why’s that?”
“Take a good look,” she said. “And try to get the booze out of your system. Don’t you recognize him? That’s the commander from the beach.”
He looked again and turned away fast when he recognized the man. Paul cursed long and low. “Okay. We need to get out of here,” he said. From a mood of boozy reverie, he was suddenly sharp as a tack again.
“Fast. But not together,” Paul said, leaning back and turning away. One of the men with a shotgun was scanning the room.
“They’re blocking the door,” Alex said. “We have to walk right past them to get out.”
“Yup,” Paul said. “That’s exactly what you’re going to do.”
“Me? Alone?”
“In thirty seconds,” he said, “before they start giving this room a thorough toss.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Leave through the men’s room window,” he said. “It’s got a grate that lifts off.”
“How do you know?”
“I checked it earlier,” he said.
“What if they have that exit covered?”
“Then I’m sunk,” he said.
“How about I go through the window and you try to waltz past them?” she suggested.
He shook his head. “Won’t work, Alex. They’re more likely to recognize me than you. I get the window, you get to flirt past the toros like a good Latin chica.”
“You’re a pig.”
“I know. We’ll discuss that later.”
He reached into his pocket and drew out a set of keys. He opened the ring and separated one key from the rest.
“Listen carefully. Five blocks from here, south on the Calle 43, there’s an old Toyota Land Cruiser. Dark green, beat up, looks like a Jeep, and a license plate ending in four-three-one. It’s a family jalopy. So I’d appreciate being able to return it without bullet holes.”
“You’re cautioning me about bullet holes after the landing we had?” she demanded.
“Yes, I am,” he went on. “I want to return the Jeep without a problem at the end of our visit. Anyway, it’s just past the La Sultanado intersection. This is an extra ignition key in case I don’t get there.”
“What about the door key?”
“There are no doors. This is Cuba.”
He handed her the key. “Are you checked into a hotel?” he asked, as the cops were starting to wander through the crowded room.
“Posada Cubana. Across the block down a side street.”
“Good. I’ll find it and meet you there tomorrow between noon and three if we get separated,” he said. “If I don’t turn up, assume I was arrested. Now. Go to the car. Right now. I’ll try to meet you there. If I don’t show up, leave in ten minutes.”
“Where should I go?”
“Anywhere for a couple of hours. Just lie low. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“What if you don’t show up tomorrow?”
“My problem, not yours, so have a nice life. Now you get out of here first,” Paul said. “And do it now. Flash a smile, a leg, whatever you have to do. Anything to get past these guys. You won’t have a second chance.”
“Okay,” Alex said. She knew the drill.
He gripped her hand quickly to give her courage, then released.
She hooked her bag over her shoulder, brushed back her hair, and turned. She moved quickly through the crowd without looking back. She passed one uniformed man, then another. She smiled and winked. They pretended not to notice her but obviously did.
Success so far. Then, twenty feet from the door, she felt a rough hand on her arm. She turned and gazed into the censorious brown eyes of a uniformed policemen.
“?Cubana? Turista, Senora?” he asked. Tourist?
She stopped but didn’t answer. She only glared.
“?Habla espanol?” he asked. Do you speak Spanish?
“Si, hablo espanol. Pero soy turista,” she answered. Yes, but I’m a tourist.
It occurred to her in a heartbeat that Cuban women weren’t supposed to be in places like this, and if they were, they were probably catering to the sex travelers. They might have thought she was a hooker. Here was an incident that could get out of control.
“?Tiene pasaporte?” he demanded again. Passport?
Another uniformed man sidled over. The captain started to turn away from the undercover men he was berating and took an interest in Alex as well.
“?Nacionalidad?” the second one asked. What country?
They were good at bullying women. She could tell. “Mexicana,” she answered.
“?Pasaporte?” the first man said again.
With evident annoyance, she reached into her bag and pulled out her Mexican passport. No better way to test a CIA product than to run it past foreign police. This was, however, not an anxiety that she needed at the moment. By the time she held the passport out, she was surrounded. She had drawn all four of them. Was this Paul’s plan? she wondered. Let her create the diversion while he worked his way through the window?
She handed over the passport.
She stood quietly and watched as the Cuban officers studied her passport. She waited. Her dress stuck to her ribs.
From beyond the four men, came one strong arm. The commander’s. His name tag said MAJOR MEJIAS. He took the passport. He stared at it, looking down, looking up, looking down again, and then looking back up.
“Yours?” he asked.
“Who else would it belong to?” she asked.
“Good question,” he answered. “Let’s find out. Espera.” She was to wait.
He stepped away for a moment, still holding her document and pulled a cell phone from his pocket. One of the cops with a shotgun went to the door and stood. One cop remained with her as the others continued to wander through the room. Alex wondered whether Paul was gone by now. She threw a glance in his direction via a wall mirror. Their table was empty. The drink glasses remained.
